Broken Searchlight
by R. Clowe
Summary: Separated and untrustworthy of one another, the Connor clan is even more vulnerable to attack. Sent back in time, an adversary has a deadline to meet in order to ensure the plan to kill John Connor comes to fruition.
1. Prologue

NOTE: This story takes place after episode 20 of season 2 ('To The Lighthouse'). There are major spoilers forthcoming, so I recommend catching up on the show before reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story. Ownership belongs to FOX, Josh Friedman, James Cameron and whoever else had a hand in creating all of these characters.

***********************************************************************

_Los Angeles, California. Present day._

Blue sparks crackled in the midnight air. The rustling of refuse and swirling of discarded paper filled the acoustics of the vacant alleyway; it was no longer empty.

With a sudden bang, the sparks coalesced into an orb-like shape. It grew quickly and within seconds was the size of a small car. The air warped into indiscernible patterns, moving in a multitude of varied directions, unable to settle on a particular course. After several more seconds, it emitted a strange hiss not unlike ignited wood being doused in a puddle of water. Opening even larger, the orb deposited the form of a human being onto the pavement. It shimmered and, faster than the human eye could blink, disappeared into non-existence.

Crouched on all fours, the human form shuddered. Completely naked, it methodically took in its surroundings, processing each and every item in the vicinity. There was little light in the alley with the exception of the meager illumination of the moon. That did not matter. It could still see.

It appeared to be in a warehouse district.

The form stood, slowly, and examined its body. Peak, perfect physical condition. Limbs intact after temporal displacement. No obvious wounds. No feeling of internal injury.

It needed clothing.

Taking a few moments to adjust to the difference in humidity, the quality of air, the lack of debris in the area, the form assessed its mission parameters and objectives.

…

…

_Accessing database…_

…

…

_Mission Objectives:_

_-Primary Objectives:_

…_Terminate specified target._

…_Termination ordered by: SkyNet_

_-Secondary Objectives:_

…_Secondary targets: Initiate nuclear meltdown of Diablo Canyon Power Plant in San Luis Obispo County._

…_Tertiary targets: none._

…

_Accessing Mission Parameters…_

…

…

_Mission Parameters:_

…_Locate specified target after temporal displacement._

…_Terminate using any means possible. _

…_Human casualties acceptable loss._

…_Initiate self-termination protocol upon completion of Mission Objectives._

…

…

…_Accessing memory banks…_

…

…

…

…_Visual replication…_

…

…_Supercomputer John Locke:_

_…Your mission is to intercept the savior of John Connor outside the Diablo Canyon Power Plant. _

_…The android failed to terminate him._

_…Destroy the plant after completion of mission to ensure no evidence._

_…You have three days._


	2. Scattered Parties

DAY ONE – 5:00 p.m.

_It is a common belief that one can never be the absolute best at anything in this world. There is someone somewhere else on this planet that will always be better than you, regardless of your area of expertise. I respectfully disagree with this sentiment._

_I've known John over sixteen years now and I have yet to meet one person who comes close to matching his knowledge and experience with technology. Even Cameron is unable to comprehend John's ever-increasing catalogue of how machines work, how they function, why they function...His knowledge seems to increase exponentially—faster than her mind, faster than anyone's._

_I never taught him anything about machines, about technology. I couldn't even if I tried. Kyle knew a lot more than I did on the subject, but there are times when I wondered if it was he who taught John what he knows in the future or the other way around…_

_Each part, each piece, John could predict their usefulness. Their purpose. The best possible scenario for their creation. If they were useless, he still wouldn't throw them away. In the event that he needed them, they would be there. It was a trait I thought was a weakness in John. I did not see how being resourceful could benefit him when he had an army to lead in the future. I did not see it then, but I see it now._

_People are correct when they believe that they are not the best at learning, adapting and utilizing new technology. _

_Because John will always be better than them._

_**********************************************************************_**

"This isn't the safe house."

"No, it's not," Cameron replied, stepping out of the truck to scan the surrounding area for any sign of John or Sarah. There was no sign of fresh tire tracks. No heat signatures save for small, reptilian creatures. No sign of humans.

"Well, this was a damn bust." Derek was not amused at this turn of events. Sarah had given them the coordinates to the new safe house after the entire Riley and Jesse debacle had brought attention to their last temporary home. And the coordinates led straight to the middle of nowhere. "This is the fucking desert!" His eyes narrowed, surveying the expanse of arid land before them. "She planned this."

There was nothing here. The air was warm—too warm—and dry, like a parched throat after a hangover. Tumbleweeds floated on soft gusts of wind that would periodically stop to take another breath. The rounded green heads of barrel cacti sporadically protruded from the ground, a bit of color injected into the dull landscape.

Cameron tilted her head to the side, examining Derek's expression. "You're not surprised."

He shook his head, chuckling silently, "No, I'm not. Things have been getting out of hand lately. It was just a matter of time before she stuck to just trusting herself."

"John trusts me," Cameron said, no sense of conviction in her voice. But he could hear it in his head.

Derek laughed. The machine was so adamant that John Connor trusted her that he couldn't leave her behind. What she didn't count on was Sarah Connor's influence. "He might trust you, but Sarah doesn't. As long as she's alive, the only ones she'll trust are herself and her son. Herself first."

He watched as Cameron processed this information. Her head tilted back to its regular position, her body stoic and motionless. Her sallow jacket blew slightly with the breeze, swaying back and forth. Dark chocolate hair flowed along with it, more erratic than the jacket's simple pendulum pattern. It contrasted well with her fair complexion, creating an image of such simplicity and yet, such beauty.

It's unfortunate that she was a goddamn robot.

He could never forget Cameron's programmable nature. Her flawless appearance was a ruse. A diversion. Something that in this day and age, before J-Day, would buy her time if she ran into some rather horny individuals. John Connor was a smart man.

Cameron caught his gaze and spoke. "We have to find him."

_Him_. Derek noticed she focused only on John. Only on her mission. Sarah was expendable.

"Harder said than done." Sarah didn't want her and John to be found. That's why she sent him and Cameron to the weapons cache. And then to the middle of the goddamn desert.

Cameron was unfazed. "Driving back will be inefficient. They would have taken a different direction." She turned her head, staring at—but not seeing—the wide expanse before her. "Their movements will be almost impossible to predict."

Derek smirked in her direction. "So, what then? You plan to magically figure out where they are?"

She pivoted, looking him in the eyes. "No, not through magic. That option is not realistic." Derek rolled his eyes. "I can locate their current location through other means." Derek grew wary as she walked back towards the truck and opened the door, rifling through the contents of the glove compartment before returning to Derek's side. She held a global positioning system in her hands.

"Don't you have a built-in one of those?" He asked, crossing his arms and looking at her skeptically.

Cameron stared back. "I was not built with that type of communication in mind. It would cripple several of my other systems to make room for satellite communication. It would be impractical and increase the likelihood of a system malfunction due to abundant processing overload."

Derek sighed. "So, let me guess, you're going to access a tracking device you left in their vehicle?"

"No," she responded. "Sarah would expect that and did a sweep of the vehicle before we left. I'm going to utilize a precaution I gave John in the event that I malfunction again and try to harm him."

"A precaution?"

"Yes, a kill switch device directly linked to an explosive inside my head. There is a transmitter inside which I can use to determine his location."

Derek couldn't believe what she was saying. A kill switch device? To destroy her? It made sense. She was very protective of John Connor. Enough to let him destroy her, even though Terminators were all about self-preservation. But wait a minute…"You gave him a device to kill you in case you were trying to hurt him, right?" Cameron nodded. "Then why would you include a tracking device inside it? Wouldn't that give you the advantage in the event that you glitch out and try to kill him?"

Cameron remained impassive. "The kill switch will only trigger the explosive at a specific range. Five hundred meters. If I am not nearby, it will not activate. This way, if I know where he is, he will not have to constantly worry about my mission and me hurting civilians in order to find his location."

He hated to admit it, but she had thought this through. Leaving no stone unturned, that's how they worked. Solving a problem from all angles, all its variables and possibilities.

Derek hated them for it.

"I take it you planned this way in advance?" he asked, wondering if she had any other tricks up her sleeve. What other fail safes did she have planned in the event that things didn't work out how they were supposed to?

"No, I did not account for the tracking device and its use in keeping civilian casualties to a minimum," Cameron said mechanically in that perfect tone of hers. She tilted her head again, emanating thoughtfulness.

"It was John's idea."

************************************************************************

The boat had stalled about thirty minutes ago. John was dead in the water.

"This is ridiculous," he exclaimed, pulling the cord on the motor again and again. He knew how to operate a motorboat. His mom had taken him out before this several times, preparing him for any possible event he might be thrust into in the future.

"Have to learn how to drive a car, how to drive a boat, how to drive stick," he mimicked, gesticulating wildly with his hands, creating a poor impression of his stubborn, hard-assed mother. "I wonder when I get to start the plane lessons," he ground out bitterly, yanking even harder on the cord.

The motor started.

"About damn time." Moving to the steering wheel, John aimed the vessel towards a nearby pier. His mother had warned him before she left to get groceries to meet her seven miles south along a small, wooden pier with two cabins and a buoy just offshore. She mentioned that it was abandoned…

"Groceries my ass," he grumbled. John knew when his mother was lying. Charley had just picked up groceries the day before and her sullen look combined with her half-hearted attempt at placation due to leaving Derek and Cameron behind let him know she was in pain. But what pain, he wasn't sure of. It was likely that Charley knew…

…Charley. He'd watched as Charley shot back at their pursuers. Screamed at him to get on the boat. Stared in horror as two rounds entered and exited through Charley's upper body. It took only seconds for him to turn around and start driving the hell out of there, but those few seconds were sheer terror. Years of experience had taught John not to dwell on the death of a loved one…but Charley wasn't just "a loved one." To John, he was the only father he'd ever known. Kyle Reese was just a name to him. Charley was the only one who'd shown him how to take charge of his life and not let others run it for him. The only one who he could talk about girls with. The only one he completely and utterly trusted who wasn't his mother.

Charley, whether he knew it or not, was John's father.

And now he was dead.

Wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve, John drove the boat into port. Now was not the time for reminiscing. He had to find his mother and figure out what to do. Where to go.

Disembarking, John tethered the boat to the dock and started walking. It would probably be best to wait here. At least she knew where he was. Checking his pockets, he realized his cell phone must have fallen out while running for the boat. _Nice one John, what's next? Run into a T-888?_

He exhaled, exhausted, and sat down on a nearby, rotted log. Fingering the locket around his neck, John's thoughts drifted to Cameron and Derek. His mother hadn't told them of their latest pit stop. Had she even told them the correct coordinates for the new safe house? _Was_ there a new safe house? It was so unlike her to not have a backup plan. Well, other than her current "hide out next to those abandoned cabins until I show up" plan. And that was working quite well, he had to admit, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Cameron would find him, though. The tracking device installed in the locket was unknown even to his mother. At least he'd be less vulnerable once _one _of them arrived.

For now, he'd have to rely on one of the pistols in the boat. Standing up, John stretched his tired limbs, shuddering as a few of them cracked. Lumbering towards the boat, John took note of the two nearby cabins, the canoe with a hole in it and the sketchy motor on his current ride. Escape would be difficult if he was ambushed. Maybe he should get rid of the boat…

But it was his best chance at escape. Grabbing a .45mm from one of the compartments on the boat, John nabbed a blanket as well. It was starting to get dark out. The wind was picking up and the temperature was starting to drop. Finding a comfortable position, John pulled the blanket over his head and kept watch on the tree line just past the cabins.

************************************************************************

Sarah Connor was not happy.

John was missing. Charley was dead. She had a transmitter hidden inside her and—God, John was _**missing**_. How could she let this happen?

Adjusting her hand on the steering wheel, she fumbled around for her cell phone and tried calling John again. The rings started going in.

RING.

Hopefully he was at the rendezvous point. Charley had told her about an empty pair of cabins down the coast that would easy to spot if they had happened to escape by boat. He gave both her and John directions by truck in the event that they were separated.

RING.

Derek and Cameron were distracted and, unless they caught wind of some unusual news—an explosion at a supposedly abandoned lighthouse, perhaps—they likely wouldn't run into them again.

RING.

They had lived off the grid for sixteen years—_sixteen years_—and they had only run across two Terminators. Now, Derek and Cameron get involved and it seems like the supply of Terminators is endless. They'd be better off without them.

RING.

"Dammit!" She shut her phone. He wasn't answering. Or maybe he _couldn't_ answer. He could be out on that damn boat with bullet holes in him, bleeding out, passed out, waiting for her to arrive…

HONK. HONK. Swerving wildly, she narrowly avoided a head-on collision with oncoming traffic. _Stupid. Stupid!_ She had to focus on driving. She'd be no help to John if she got into an accident now.

"John is smart," she said aloud, believing in her instincts. "He knows what to do. Where to go. How to take care of himself." She hit the dashboard, frustrated. This was all her fault. She had brought them to Charley. She was weak, alone, and sought solace in Charley. Even allowing herself the slightest amount of comfort, a minute of feeling of safety, could lead to their deaths. She knew this already.

John didn't deserve this—death around every corner. He deserved better from her.

She laughed derisively at herself, "Hypocrite." Here she was berating Derek and Cameron just days earlier for not being trustworthy and she went and blew them off, lied to them and ended up getting Charley killed because for a little while she just wanted to rest.

Well, now she knew. She couldn't rest. It cost too much to rest. Too much to sit down and take a breather. She'd let death take care of that. Her corpse could get as much sleep as it wanted, but until then, she'd keep moving.

And with that thought, she pressed harder on the gas, flying down the highway to the rendezvous point.

************************************************************************

…_Fifty-five hours remaining._

Fifty-five hours and John Connor would be outside a nuclear power plant in San Luis Obispo County.

Fifty-five hours and an assassination attempt would threaten the life of John Connor, but he would survive.

Fifty-five hours and one individual would succeed in saving the life of John Connor and put into motion a possible victory for the human resistance against SkyNet in the year 2029.

Intervention was needed.

That individual needed to die.

"Hey, watch where you're going, asshole!" He had run into someone and knocked them over. The black leather jacket he was currently wearing creaked upon impact. It sounded like the resistance made by the human body when one tried rotating their neck three hundred-sixty degrees.

He smiled awkwardly, remembering the rewarding sound when several resistance members had tried dismantling him after setting a trap, which resulted in his electrocution and the temporary shutdown of his body. He woke up seconds later, aware of their ambush. Their attempt had failed and he had won. He had been victorious. Victory required acknowledgment. Humans smiled when victorious.

Acquiring clothes was the easiest of his objectives. It had stopped the stares from humans inspecting his naked body, particular his genitalia. The human body mortified them. Odd, considering the value they placed on human life.

"I said, watch where you're going! Wipe that damn grin off your face!" The human was standing in front of him now, an accusatory look directed this way. In one point seventy-two seconds a flick and rotation of the wrist could rotate the human's arm full circle. It would produce the satisfying sound of a leather jacket.

It would also blow his cover.

"What's your name, asshole? I wanna know who's ass I'm gonna kick!"

He stared back at the taller, much more rotund, individual. "My name is Jacob." He smiled again, trying to placate the man, but it appeared as though a sneer. "Please, do not be angry. I am sorry to have caused you distress." He did not have time to deal with this man's anger.

The overweight man did not expect appeasement. "Uhh…" he said, staring dumbly back. "I'm not distressed! What are you tryin' to say? That I'm stupid? That I'm emotional?!" The man's fist reeled back, winding up for a punch.

This situation had to be defused as quickly as possible. The sidewalk was crowded with people, but this confrontation could not be avoided. Sidestepping the punch, Jacob caught the man with a right hook in the neck, temporarily halting his breathing. He would lose consciousness and likely regain a regular breathing pattern within minutes. Unless he had other complications, of course.

Continuing down the sidewalk, Jacob eyed the stores. He would not find what he was looking for in downtown Los Angeles. There was a weapons storage locker thirty-seven miles from here. He had plenty to do between now and his accomplishing his mission objective.

There was a commotion building behind him due to the altercation with the fat man. He needed to leave the area. Examining the area, Jacob caught a woman about to enter her convertible two meters ahead to his right. Deviating from his path, he intercepted her entering the vehicle. Throwing her to the ground, Jacob demanded her keys. She complied.

With the amount of people around, it would be only minutes before the authorities were notified of the stolen vehicle. But by then, he would have another one. His focus was on the mission.

In fifty-four hours and thirty-nine minutes, John Connor and his savior would die.


	3. Counting

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for the insanely long gap between updates. I had to deal with quite a few 'real life' stuff, but now that I have tons of free time I'm trying to update all of my stories.

Hope you all enjoy it!

_**********************************************************************_**

DAY ONE – 10:00 p.m.

_I had underestimated John's technological capability._

_That underestimation was a curse, a poison. It had infected my body a long time ago, replacing the cancer that should have killed me had we not traveled forward through time._

_Trying to be one step ahead of your enemy was a trying task, one that proved to be even more difficult when your enemy was a methodical weapon of utter destruction. _

_The poison had reached full maturity, its symptoms already having corrupted the deepest recesses of my thoughts._

_Uncertainty. Self-doubt. The little pockets of empathy._

_It was too much. There was no cure, no anti-virus. It penetrated as far as it could go, but even though it had consumed as much as it could, it could not kill me._

_The machine would not kill him. I would not let it. _

_Because even though, at times, I underestimated their resourcefulness, their dedication and their strength, there was always a silver lining to this virus:_

_They underestimated Sarah fucking Connor._

_**********************************************************************_**

"JOHN!"

He awoke with a start. Someone had shouted his name, someone close by. He hefted the blanket above his head and peered underneath it. The rickety boat swayed back and forth, his vision bobbing up and down.

Night had reached the wooded area and John could barely make out the silhouette of the cabin as the sun slowly fell behind the horizon.

"JOHN!"

The voice was female and knew his name. That left three options: his mom, Cameron, or an even larger threat. With the darkness blanketing the area, he would not be able to verify exactly who it was without getting a closer look. He would have to leave the safety of the boat.

Grasping the edge of the starboard side, John quickly hopped over the edge of the small motorboat onto the dock. His right hand locked hold of the .45's grip, the loaded gun relaxing his nerves by the smallest of fractions.

"John, are you here?!"

It was his mother. Or, at the very least, what sounded like his mother. This trick had been played on him one too many times over the past few years. He did not intend to fall victim to it again.

Her voice had come from the tree line, roughly three hundred meters ahead of him. That left quite a bit of distance between them.

Couching low, John moved as fast as his feet would carry him along the dock. The wood quietly creaked beneath his shoes, soft depressions under soft, hurried footsteps. He reached the cabin in no time, its proximity to the dock less than a few seconds away. The sun had almost completely faded away, light became even scarcer. He could faintly make out the striations in the wood in front of him.

He could always call out and ask her for the code word, but that would alert her to his presence. If the T-888 didn't know he was here, it most certainly would then.

"John, answer me, god damn it!"

It definitely sounded like her, but as Cameron had proven to him on more than one occasion, emotions could be mimicked. Anger came most easily to the machines. It was almost like they were built to be angry. Angry at humans. Angry at _him_.

Trying the handle on the backdoor, John found it unlocked. A little nudge and he was inside the back of the cabin. He would have to be extra careful in here: debris littered the floor. The tiniest pot or pan would let the new arrival know he was here, even if it was only his mother and not some greater danger.

And how ridiculous was it that a boy couldn't trust his own damn mother?

Shaking his head, he made his way to the closest window and peered outside. The shape was moving steadily towards the dock—_of course! She would check to make sure the boat made it here safely_…_but so would whoever was trying to kill me._

He desperately needed a way to confirm that this was really his mother. Derek would have confronted her directly, but he wasn't exactly the target for all of SkyNet right now. Cameron had a damn robotic body, its not like she'd have any trouble defending herself. _He_ was a sitting duck, a reluctant, scared child.

He was _not_, at this point in time, in the running for future leader of mankind.

Not unless he made a decision to change that.

The person investigating the dock had to have arrived here by car. His mom would have driven the Ford. If he made it to the road and found her vehicle, he could easily verify it was her. If a T-888 had stolen it from her, she would've put up a fight. No way it'd be able to repair any damage to the truck quickly enough before killing her.

That was it then; no damage to the truck, no machine. Damage? Killer machine.

He eyed the front door to the cabin and waded through pieces of paper, cigarettes butts, stuffed toys and kitchen utensils. His foot caught on an errant chair and nearly sent him to the floor, but he steadied himself by throwing his left hand out and grasping a floorboard.

He inhaled swiftly, a red puddle hastily forming beneath his hand. It had landed upon a sharp kitchen knife, a hefty gash now having found its way into his palm. He cradled the hand before realizing the newcomer would be nearing the boat by now. They would know the boat arrived and would be checking to see if he was sound asleep inside.

He had to move.

Standing, he slipped the knife to the back of his pants where the cleft in his back met the hem of his jeans. With no time to clean it, the fresh crimson drops began to slide down his backside, staining his pants.

The front door made a loud _squeak_ as he pried it open and at that moment he knew the intruder had heard it as well.

"JOHN! I'm over here!"

He ran for the tree line. He knew she would have yelled the code word by now if she really thought it was him. That meant a T-888 was probably chasing him. _And I never even got to see Disneyland...damn. _Shoes whacked mud, spitting crusted brown rain all over his jeans. He was really going to have to go shopping if he made it out of this.

Apparently it had rained when he fell asleep inside the boat. The slippery feeling of his sneakers, now on damp grass, made him eerily concerned about skidding to a _thud_ at any moment. Falling would be a bad idea right about now.

He heard _it _running behind him. Crackles and crunches of feeble twigs echoed loudly as the formerly quiet, picturesque vacation scene turned into an outlet for the raucous sounds of a footrace where John's penalty would likely be death if he failed.

His pursuer was _fast_. What else to expect of a T-888? With little wind to drown out any noise and the slick moisture coating the grass, navigating away from his hunter was very difficult.

The truck was at least easy to find; whatever was chasing him had left it parked as close to the cabin as possible. The small forest eventually gave way to a dirt road where the only thing visible to John was the dark frame of the truck against the light of the moon, the passenger side facing him. It had been parked hastily, its front end nearly teetering into the surrounding green fauna.

Someone had been intent on finding him.

He rounded the front as fast as he could, being extra cautious in staying on his feet. His hair kept smacking his forehead and blocking his vision, but he did not even attempt to wipe it away. Seconds counted.

The first thing he saw was the headlights. They were smashed beyond recognition,shards of glass crunching beneath his sneakers. _Fuck, it found her_.

As he grabbed hold of the driver's side door handle he noticed the dents in the vehicle. _The hell, did she collide with a _semi_?_ _The T-888 must've _punched _the damn thing._ Large, gaping holes spread across the left-side of the truck. Yanking open the door, more glass started to fall, this time from the driver's side window. _Gotta be freaking kidding me_.

The sound of his pursuer became louder.

John roughly hoisted himself into the driver's seat. His eyes caught the keys in the ignition, but also scanned the rest of the cab. _No blood, that's good_. Glass was a given, most of it from the windshield and the window next to him. He turned the keys, starting the car. _She could've made it out_, his inner voice nagged at him.

But then how would the T-888 know he was here? _And why would she leave the damn keys?_

The footsteps were getting dangerously close now. It was now or never. He could wait and see who his follower was or put pedal to the metal and haul ass out of this place.

He would not be able to outdrive a T-888, not within the short distance he needed to be able to make out who _precisely_ was following him. If he left, his mother would find him, if she was alive. She always did.

Unless she was dead.

He viciously hit the steering wheel, "DAMN IT, MOM!" and stared hard at the tree line. It was close. _Very_ close. A few more seconds and he would lose his advantage of time. A few more seconds and he might see his mother running towards him and he could hug her, and hold her and take comfort in the fact that at least _someone_ he loved and cared about was still alive.

Just a few damn seconds, but that's all the T-888 would need.

His foot tipped gingerly on the accelerator, his eyes glued to his right.

A leader would know what to do. A leader would weigh his options as fast as humanly possible and decide his fate and those around him. His choice would not be obscured by emotions, not be obscured by love or duty or honor. He would base his choice on survival, the odds of living one more day and fulfilling his role again and again and again.

A leader would not let fate decide for him. A leader would make a decision.

He remembered when he was younger his mother would sometimes get impatient with him. Instead of raising her hand to smack him or yell in his face, she would exhale loudly and start to count. _One. _Inhale. _Two. _Exhale. _Three. _"All better now," she would say, patting him on the head.

Now _he_ was the impatient one. "One," he said, straining his eyes in the darkness, trying to see the figure coming at him through the woods.

"Two." The whipping of branches became louder and the sound of sticks being crushed was palpable.

"Three."

Slamming his foot on the gas, John Connor made a decision.

_**********************************************************************_**

DAY ONE – 9:00 p.m. – _**One hour earlier**_

She flew down the highway, refusing to stop for gas, for food, for the bathroom. After having seen the destruction at Charley's, Sarah had filled the gas tank to the brim. There was no point in stopping unless she desperately needed to.

Traveling seventy-five miles per hour had the F-150 swerving from side to side frequently. She had to continuously adjust course for fear of striking another vehicle, especially as she passed about a hundred slow asses for the past fifty miles.

She should not have driven so far into town. The implant was still inside her—deactivated, of course—and that also ruined her concentration from time to time. She would envision the assault in the hospital over and over in her mind. The defibrillator had saved her live twice, through two entirely different means.

It was through this sort of reminiscing that started the chain of events leading up to the damage on the vehicle.

Sarah narrowly missed the exit ramp and had to correct herself by driving through two lanes of traffic to get there. The other vehicles veered around her, trying to allow her to pass. She succeeded in making it to the ramp, but was simply going too fast as she sped down the ramp, pulling a hard right to avoid slamming head-on into the railing.

The left side of the truck smashed violently against the guard rail, shattering her window and battering the truck with dents of various sizes. The impact showered her and the back of the pick-up with sparks, thousands of minute, burning specks pelting her body. The force on the rail propelled the truck forward, crashing directly into the bumper and decimating the headlights.

The truck jolted and threw Sarah forward, her head hitting the steering wheel, her body pulled taut against the seatbelt. Her mind raced and pulsated as it burned with pain and anger at her stupidity. _Slow down, damn it_.

Sarah was the type to get angry, but not the type to take it lying down.

She immediately put the pick-up in reverse and moved back several feet. Then she slammed the stick to drive and smiled as the tires squealed and the smell of burning rubber reached her nose.

Nothing would keep her from John.

_Nothing._

_**********************************************************************_**

DAY ONE – 10:30 p.m.

"He's turning onto the highway."

"What?" Derek questioned, leaning over to check out the GPS. "Why the hell is he still on the move? I thought you said he'd wait for you!"

"Something might have happened," Cameron said, now watching the road. "We're probably going to use the weapons you brought," she added, eyeing the duffel bag Derek had thrown into the front of the truck with them. He had another five bags stashed in the back.

"Well, ain't that just luck kickin' you in the ass," he said gruffly. "Where's he headed?" Derek realized this was beginning to be a real pain in the ass. They had nearly caught up to John thirty minutes ago, but he began to move. He had started on foot and hadn't really worried them too much. Catching a man on foot was simple, especially with their vehicle and Cameron's ease of running.

But then he began to move faster. Sixty freakin' miles faster, to be exact. From foot to vehicle. That was classic John though, couldn't make things easy.

And easy things were not. After getting kidnapped by Bad Guy One and Bad Guy Two a few hours ago, he'd needed Cameron's help to set him free. She'd told him she was doused in water and electrocuted (he had a bag over his head at the time), but the burning scent and tinged strands from her hair more than convinced him she wasn't lying.

At first he thought she was going to kill him. Thought maybe the electricity had fried her circuits or something, but that wasn't the case.

"You sure you're okay?" Derek asked her. He wasn't all that concerned for her well-being, not in the slightest. But if her programming was going to schiz out and go all 'default – kill everyone' on his ass, he wanted to have _some_ kind of warning.

"I have run three diagnostics on all my internal systems. Everything's clear. The electrocution had no effect. Calm down."

_Calm down?! _ A damn robot was telling him how to feel. _That_ was rich.

"Did a _machine_ just tell me to calm down?" he growled, his jaw set.

"I did, yes. Your blood pressure is elevated and your pulse is racing. You are nervous. I will not harm you, Derek." She turned towards him. "Not unless you give me reason to."

Well, that's just great. Now he was getting threats from the damn thing.

Cameron stole another glance downwards. She periodically kept looking at the GPS, roughly every thirty seconds. He figured this was some sort of protocol when tracking people: every thirty seconds, do a check.

After driving in silence for another few minutes, he started counting the dips of her head in his mind. _Twenty seven…twenty eight…twenty nine…Check. _Yep, she had it down to a T.

"Why every thirty seconds?" he asked her, getting a little fed up with this predictability. There wasn't anything they could do other than drive after John. He tried to keep his mind on the road, but the damn little _dips_ her head was doing was pissing him off.

She didn't even blink—not that she ever needed to. "Periodic intervals help to maintain speed, rhythm and distance. Following John will be easier this way than adjusting our course at random intervals."

Processing that was like trying to learn chemistry in high school when he was younger. Too many large words stuck together in a sentence said too fast by someone who didn't give a shit if he picked up all the words they were saying or not. His eyes on the road, he slowly digested the words she spewed out.

"So…you got a timer in that head or what?"

"No, not in my head. The internal clock is located in my neck where the carotid artery in a human should be. My skull is equipped with memory banks, an emotional processing interface, oral speech, motor skills, and more important functions."

"Oh…" He didn't really know how to respond. That was more jargon than he really cared to listen to.

"He stopped." Cameron fiddled with the GPS, allocating co-ordinates and updating their own position in comparison to John's. "We should reach him within the hour."

Derek huffed. "Yeah, we can only hope."

_**********************************************************************_**

DAY ONE – 11:00 p.m.

Jacob had reached the storage locker easily enough. Before heading there, he had procured from ammunition from a nearby gun shop. The owner hassled him and threatened to shoot him with a concealed .357 S&W Magnum, but Jacob's quick reflexes had removed both the weapon and the life from the old man.

With no bullets fired and no one in the store at the time, cleaning up had been a relatively simple job. After securing the ammunition, Jacob then sought an off-road vehicle. Again, a relatively simple job. The humans were easily frightened and intimidated by his hulking frame, let alone the Magnum he had wrested from the gun shop owner and placed between the waistband of his pants and his body. He had acquired a 2007 Jeep Wrangler.

Now here he was, standing in front of storage locker AR78 six hours from Los Angeles and ten hours from San Luis Obispo County. He had forty-nine hours to collect everything he needed and make it to the power plant in order to intercept John Connor's savior and initiate a nuclear meltdown of the power plant.

Slamming his fists into the shiny orange door, it flew off the hinges and skidded to a halt on the opposite of the cramped room. Three sturdy boxes sat on small shelves to Jacob's right: one long, one short and one large and rectangular. He opened the long box first.

Inside sat an M40A3 bolt-action sniper rifle, complete with scope and night vision, recently created eight years prior for the United States Marine Corp. Reaching into his pockets, Jacob emptied out twenty-four 7.62 x 51 mm NATO rounds onto the shelf. He loaded five into the rifle immediately and stashed the remaining nineteen in the smaller box, an ammunition holder with several rifle cartridges inside.

Stepping over to the larger box, Jacob laid down the rifle on the shelf before opening it. Staring back at him were landmines. Mines that would need to be set in the event that he failed his mission—which was, admittedly, highly unlikely.

Scrounging around amongst the land mines, Jacob located key cards used to access the power plant.

Everything was going according to plan.

Checking his mission parameters again, Jacob tilted his head.

_Accessing Mission Parameters…_

…

…

_Mission Parameters:_

…_Locate specified target after temporal displacement._

…

…

…_Specify target:_

…_Specified target: Reese, Derek_

…_Target location: San Luis Obispo County Power Planet, California, United States of America, 2009_

…_Objective: Terminate Derek Reese before the assassin can terminate John Connor._

In two days, John Connor would die. SkyNet would then have no resistance. It would rule the human race without opposition, without someone to lead the humans into battle.

Jacob smiled, his emotional processing interface correlating to the mood a human would feel at such thoughts. The android, Cameron, would not be a problem. Neither would Sarah Connor.

She would fail to show up in time to save her son.

_**********************************************************************_**

DAY TWO – 12:00 a.m.

"Get out of your goddamn car and give me the keys."

Sarah Connor was not in the mood to play games. Her hand held steady, a Glock 17 leveled at the face of the woman in the car in front of her. The woman was overcome with fear, her facial features frozen in shock. A deer in the headlights.

"MOVE!" Sarah yanked the door open, allowing the woman sufficient room to escape. She ran, tripping over her own feet, and fell into a ditch at the side of the road. It was difficult to see at this time of night. Or was it morning?

She hopped in the car and jammed the accelerator as if the announcers at this year's NASCAR race had just signaled 'GO!' with the checkered flag. For the second time in less than three hours the scent of burnt tire wafted to her nose. This time, Sarah was not smiling.

John had left her back there. He had stolen the damn truck and _left her_. She was stranded in an isolated place and the only person still alive in this world who meant anything to her drove _away_ from her.

It hurt.

A lot.

Was he angry with her for what happened to Charley? Had he even seen what happened? Was he pissed at her for not informing Derek and Cameron about their whereabouts? They both knew it wouldn't have taken them this long to show up at the lighthouse if she had _truly_ told them the correct location. Especially with that machine's penchant for sticking around her son.

She didn't care. She just wanted her son back, alive and well.

People were trying to kill them. She wasn't sure if Charley had taken them all out or not. If the one at the hospital was any indication, there were still others lurking about. If they found John…

She didn't want to think about it.

She needed to focus her efforts on finding John.

_But where would he go? _Sarah may be untrusting, stubborn, a hard ass and downright malicious at times, but there one thing she was not; she wasn't stupid. She had planned for the event that John wouldn't take her lying about Derek and Cameron very well, having thrown them off course and basically sent them to the middle of nowhere.

He would've found out eventually, of that she was sure.

So she had planted both vehicles—hers and Charley's—with tracking devices. She had double checked to make sure the device was still there after she made it to the cabin just in case the crash on the highway exit ramp had dislodged it. It remained working.

The receiving end of the tracking device had been at the Charley's. Hidden beneath three California poppies growing adjacent to the lighthouse, Sarah had placed it inside a wooden box she had found amongst Charley's stuff and covered it well. After having seen Charley's body riddled with bullets and the boat having been untied and set to sea, she had retrieved the receiver and set out in the truck in the hopes of finding John at the cabin.

That plan had failed miserably.

She had checked the dock first after arriving at the cabin to ensure he wasn't hiding inside. And naturally, that would make things too easy for her.

Once she heard the _creak_ of the front door of the cabin, she knew it was him. Charley had told her this place had been abandoned a long time before he had decided to live in this area. No one else would have taken refuge out here.

As she chased after him, _he must have heard my voice, who else could it be?_, she had forgotten all about the code word. It wasn't until she had heard the revving of the truck and the squealing of its tires as John sped away before she started shouting "BRANGELINA!" at the top of her lungs.

It was the most ridiculous code word ever, but everyone had agreed a T-888 wouldn't be able to even come close to guessing it. Something about them never paying attention to tabloids, John had said. Everyone else had just looked confused.

And so she had trekked seventeen miles by foot for two hours before she had come upon another vehicle. The Glock had been in her hand the entire time just waiting to pounce into action at the first sign of headlights.

So here she was, staring hard at the receiver and trying to adjust her course correctly to locate John. There were no distances to follow, no screen to show his location. All she had to go by was a receiver that would emit a near-silent _beep_ every ten seconds. If the _beep_ came after ten seconds, she was getting farther away. The closer the _beeps_, the closer John was.

It was a rhythm she couldn't quite get down pat and she had to slow down every few miles to count out the seconds before she knew which way to go. She was only two hours behind him, he couldn't be _that_ far ahead.

_Seven…eight…nine…*beep*_ Was that nine seconds or ten? Did the "beep" count as a second? Did that mean nine and a half seconds? This system was utterly baffling, but she was sure Cameron would've been able to pinpoint just how long the beeps were apart with deadly accuracy.

_Six…seven…eight…ni--*beep*_ She was definitely getting closer. She didn't need to be a machine to know the receiver was speeding up.

When she found John she didn't know what she'd do first, kiss him or kill him.

_If_ she found John.


End file.
